


The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

by leiascully



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, No Plot/Plotless, Nonbinary Crowley, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 20:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20159752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: Crowley contained multitudes.  They shifted, over millennia, between man and women, either, neither.  Crowley, and/or: snake, demon, creator, dissector.  Too much mirth for Hell, too many doubts for Heaven.  Too much compassion for either of them, really.  Too wise to woo peaceably, as they'd once said to someone in need of a muse.  Some things were made to be liminal.





	The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: n/a  
A/N: Just something that didn't really fit in any of my other stories.  
Disclaimer: No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Crowley, inquisitive. Crowley, falling. Crowley caught between Heaven and Hell, neither fish nor fowl nor good red herring. 

She must have known when She made them. After all, She made them in her image. 

Crowley the original struggling artist, dispossessed by their benefactor, cast out of Heaven's lofty sunlit garret and banished to the mean streets below. At least in Hell, there was dancing. Once in a while, their brilliance was acknowledged. The M-25, for example, at least got a nod. The selfie went unheralded. Crowley sulked. Their genius was too subtle, they reassured themself. One day, the others would realize.

The stars reminded them, every night on Earth, of what they'd lost. They looked up at their good works, which had not been enough. The stars still glittered in the firmament, though. She hadn't done away with everything they'd made. Maybe she'd kept the stars to remember Crowley by. They could think so. Somehow there was a comfort in it. 

All they'd lacked was faith, but surely that was how She had formed them. She had touched them with inspiration instead of certainty. Crowley contained multitudes. They shifted, over millennia, between man and women, either, neither. Crowley, and/or: snake, demon, creator, dissector. Too much mirth for Hell, too many doubts for Heaven. Too much compassion for either of them, really. Too wise to woo peaceably, as they'd once said to someone in need of a muse. Some things were made to be liminal. Sodium and water famously didn't get along: if one extracted all the sodium from the sea into a solid block and dropped it back in, well. Fireworks, catastrophe, annihilation, et cetera. And yet there was the sea, and it nourished so much life. Crowley liked the sea. They felt at ease on the beach, where the land met the water and they both changed each other an inch at a time. 

Crowley understood the sea. Salt and water, unexpected and inexorable. Crowley too touched all shores and yet remained apart. They were ill at ease in company occult or ethereal, except for Aziraphale's. Humans were easier. Crowley was grateful for the small mercy of their assignment to the planet. The world was their canvas and they took pride in smudging their thumbprint over it. 

Even Aziraphale mistook them, though. They weren't brave. They weren't kind. They weren't any of the things Aziraphale called them in that gentle voice. They certainly weren't worth saving. At least, they hadn't been, before the Garden. They couldn't imagine salvation now, six thousand years steeped in sin. 

(Oh, they could imagine it, but not for themself.)

One day, there would be a war. Crowley knew they weren't fit for soldiering. Other angels had gotten flaming swords and various other bits of celestial weaponry. Crowley had been issued a handful of starstuff and a creative license and a great deal of time to contemplate the general bent of the universe, and it certainly was bent. No wonder they'd come back to the heavenly host with a head full of possibilities. They'd had the infinite span of the cosmos to gaze into and stars in their eyes. They'd sung the wrong harmony to themself as they worked, somehow, out of tune with the Almighty. 

And for their dissonance, they'd been banished. It wasn't as if they'd actually picked up a weapon and swung at their fellow angels. Crowley couldn't even say it had been Her decision. Nothing personal, mate. Cutbacks, you know. Eternal war. And just like that, they'd become the Enemy. Crowley had gazed at the stars as they'd fallen. A few of the stars had fallen too. Out of sympathy, maybe, or poorly crafted in a moment of distraction. Or maybe it had been Her final gift. Good work, kiddo, take a couple of them with you. 

Maybe the apple hadn't been their most inspired moment, but they'd been exiled by then. It was hard to see anyone else enjoying paradise, especially knowing what would happen. It was inevitable as much as it was ineffable. Crowley had seen it coming a mile away. Six thousand years later, they were still vexed about it, and not inclined to believe in the greater Good. 

Only Aziraphale made sense, all Faith, Hope, and Love tempered by a weakness for simple pleasures. But Crowley liked that. What was there to redeem life but a soft pillow, a sleek suit, a fragrant glass of wine? What was there, in the face of Armageddon, but the solace of an embrace and a concert that wasn't Queen? 

Aziraphale smiled and Crowley fell again, and landed softly, and grinned back, filled with a new fire.


End file.
